


A (tiny) Matter Of Science

by Jimlockian



Series: Prompts [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John, Implied Sexual Content, Kidnapped John, M/M, Pocket John, Pocket!lock, Pocketlock, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 18:55:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jimlockian/pseuds/Jimlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pocket!lock - After Sherlock's experiment goes horribly right John is left the size of a doll! What happens after the change is more surprising than John's tiny size; Sherlock tries to be a good friend for once, the world is too amazed to leave him alone, and Jim is rather kind about the whole thing.. John is still John, but stuck between a pebble and a hard place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A (tiny) Matter Of Science

**Author's Note:**

> Super-sized prompt for Little_R – you've brightened many a morning of mine with comments, thank you! 
> 
> Covers the prompt: John has shrunken to hobbit or pocket size/has become a hobbit. And EVERYONE is after him. Some want to sell him, some want to use his abilities, some want to experiment on him, some just want to hug him and keep him forever cause he's so adorable, and some want to do naughty stuff to him.... This annoys John, especially since everyone thinks that a hobbit/pocket sized person is completely helpless. BAMF!John when tiny. 
> 
> AU Pocket!Lock – For this prompt to work I felt that Sherlock had to be a mad scientist so it begins more as a Mad scientist AU, and that the BAMF needs to be worked up to (since John is not an angry guy).. Oh and I know Johniarty was not specifically mentioned, but I know you love Johniarty.. so I wrote it in! Huzzah!

“John..” Sherlock calls loudly, pausing and standing up straighter.  
  
“John!” Again he pauses, but for less time.  
  
“John!” The detective exhales his frustrations and scrutinizes the glass vessel in front of him. It gleams in the morning sunlight, containing a light amber colored liquid. A bit unusual though, as it has the smallest peculiar sheen within. His latest experiment and a most ingenious recipe indeed. A few slivers still float within the glass, the bare remains of rose petals.  
  
Once more he calls to his best friend and consistent colleague, a sandy brown haired army doctor with a slight roundness about him and as shrewd a wit as an average person can have, in Sherlock's books at least. When no reply comes he turns back to the flask and lifts it, flicking his wrist to swish the liquid around the glass. A slight wafting came from the tornado of amber, a metallic scent that Sherlock found pleasant. Just a little whiff of iron.  
  
And, though less telltale, within it lay the host plant of the monarch butterfly, pulverized, with the liquid run through it and the plant's green leaves and stalk removed, leaving the glass swimming with particles yet still mostly clear. The petal slivers are far more numerous and still sparse.  
  
Though much of it is something of a homeopathic cocktail it also had a microscopic chemical kick. Sherlock has taken a basic single molecule structure that will bind with the other ingredients. It is something he had discovered some time ago, but only now he pairs it with a series of polyolefin elastomer molecules.  
  
Sherlock expects to be able to use it to make organic compounds smaller. It is only the first attempt though, so he is not holding out on any high hopes this early in the process.  
  
With a sigh the detective sets down the experimental flask and gives the inanimate object a warning stare. He supposes that John has gotten up early and left, or is going to sleep in. Either way, Sherlock sets a tea towel over the flask, hiding it from view. Feeling that this was enough he turns and heads into the living room.  
  
In quick order he is setting out on Baker Street, ready to fetch one last ingredient that he seems to have run out of. The flask seems safe enough where it is, and John is either out or in bed so Sherlock will have to go out if he wants everything done by the evening, to start trial runs with the liquid.

Unfortunately, the trial run happens without Sherlock there to observe it.

* * *

  
“Sherlock?” Yawns John as he traipses down the stairs, rubbing the side of his head tiredly. Last night was a long one for him – with too many pints. Not that it had seemed like too many at the time, but in the light of the next day it certainly felt like too much.  
  
He could have sworn he heard Sherlock calling him when he first stumbled out of bed, but John gives up quickly. The detective will either appear underfoot, or John would caulk it up to an effect of his hangover.  
  
With sluggish steps he heads into the kitchen, his half open eyes taking in the room. Something smelt odd but nice. John could not quite place it, for it was not any thing burnt, almost like the scent of something right before it is burnt. He sniffs the air and then notices the aqua tea towel, lifting it.  
  
“Sherlock, why would you make tea in a beaker..” John sighs, though he cannot even be mildly annoyed anymore. Living with Sherlock has made his already firm patience rock solid, at least, most of the time (but he is only human).  
  
He lifts the flask to his nostrils and inhales the sweet yet peculiar scent, “We don't have any rose tea..” He murmurs after the smell hits him, then adds after getting a whiff of metal, “Did he leave the stirring spoon in? Sherlock..”

John is slightly bemused by his misfit roommate and shrugs, not minding so much when the tea is ready made, especially when he hardly feels up to making anything himself. He carries the glass over to a cabin and pours it into a nice tea cup from their set, smiling as the flask still feels warm.

So then he _did_ hear Sherlock and the man was leaving... Maybe he even tried to make tea for him. It kind of cheered John to think of it that way – even if, and he only just noticed, there were some leafy bits within.. John surveys the petal slivers and shrugs, slightly broken teabag or not Sherlock tried.  
  
After adding just a little cream he swirls it together, sets down the flask and lifts it to his lips. The peculiar flavor hits him, and then suddenly everything changes. Everything feels odd and not worse than his already aching body, but just.. not his usual, almost heavy.

A moment later the tea cup falls to the floor and shatters.  
  
Luckily John falls to the tabletop and, though landing on flat wood is hard and painful, it is a far better fall than the porcelain battleground made of the tea cup below. Slowly he sits up and groans, rubbing his head and letting his body get its bearings. The time spent leaning over his knees settled him and after a few minutes John stood up.  
  
Just as he is getting ready to ask where the tile floor went, and where all this wood flooring came from, he realizes that in front of him is a giant white rectangle with an opaque window and a series of huge buttons on the side. A giant microwave?  
  
Yet the longer John stands there, the more he realizes that the microwave is not a gargantuan novelty piece. It really is his microwave. And when he turns behind him he catches sight of Sherlock's array of lab equipment – a huge microscope, building sized beakers, his distilling flask could have fit John inside it, and skyscraper length pippets in their equally big stands.  
  
It is John that is minuscule.

* * *

  
When Sherlock gets back to the flat what he finds shocks him. With John's hair Sherlock had almost mistaken him for a Ken doll but the height was off.  
  
He ends up searching the flat for any sign of airborne hallucinogens, and finds none. Then he decides that he must take action – there is a tiny John figure lying on the kitchen table, sleeping in a dead to the world way..  
  
All splayed out in an open position on his back, asleep in his miniature jumper and his underpants, but nothing else. Oddly, John's (full size) trousers lie on the floor beside the table, and the remains of a broken tea cup. As Sherlock leans over he notices the dark slices - rose petals. He might have been preoccupied with John but he had noticed the flask missing, and apparently here was where it ended up.

Fascinated more than concerned he began to look over his now doll-sized friend. It is only after the first few prods from Sherlock's finger that John begins to move, slowly waking. He mutters about a weird dream before shouting as he realizes that everything around him is still huge...

Including the figure in front of him – a skyscraper of black wool. Sherlock's coat. The detective soon leans over the table and John has an easy time looking at his face, the lengthy visage now blown out of its usual size. “John?”  
  
“Sherlock!” He calls, yelling it as loud as he can, though it is still soft on Sherlock's ears. Just a tad more than a loud whisper.

“You drank the bronze colored liquid for my experiment.” Sherlock states because there is no other solution to his eyes – it is gone, a tea cup shattered, and his friend shockingly small. When John nods with terror the detective has it confirmed.

“We'll get you back to normal John. It's all a matter of science.” He is collected and remains composed in spite of the shocking circumstance. Sherlock is simply unphased by the sudden odd happenings on Baker Street.  
  
Meanwhile John is cursing well enough to have sailors turning their heads to hear his stream of foul mouthed jibberish. If they could hear him. Sherlock only makes out some of it, and it does not suit him. So he tells John that they will just need to be careful and he will begin work immediately on a cure.

Disgruntled, John follows him, making the walk across the great plain that is their kitchen table. Skirting around various lab equipment and cutlery as he goes. He pauses and turns a great crimson, trying to pull his jumper down.

Sherlock looks over and realizes what John has only just noticed, “You must have spilled some when it fell.. Your top clothes and pants are organic cotton blends... but your trousers are not.”

As if the situation was not been bad enough already...

* * *

 

Adjusting to his new height is enough to start with, but John also has to put up with living within Sherlock's reach. This means that he never goes far from Sherlock, unless the detective walks away from him forgetfully. The man's attention seems to have done just the opposite, making him better than usual. Sherlock had even taken out his magnifying glass and kept it within reaching distance. He rarely uses it though, as he noticed John got irked by it at the first usage.  
  
John eats beside Sherlock on the table, sits beside him on the end of the couch cushion to watch telly, and sleeps on the detective's dresser drawer. As awkward as it is at first they both adjust almost immediately.

This lasts for less than two days before John gets over his initial fear of the floor – the idea of falling down to it, or being stepped on accidentally while on it, which has so far led him to avoid it. With the sudden downsizing to his form he wanted to keep himself safe while Sherlock worked on the cure, but after the first forty-eight hours John became bored of being cautious and patient. Bored of living at his friend's elbow.

So John makes the mistake of having Sherlock take him out and by that evening they reap the unfortunate rewards of their excursion.. The news media explodes with the story – that night everything changes as the world hears of the first miniaturization of a human being.

 _Doctor John Watson, a practicing medical professional and former army Captain, is the first person in the world to be shrank – yes shrank, by the boffin detective and dabbling chemist Sherlock Holmes. Hollywood style hijinks and world news at once!_  
  
Though John refused to consent to the military's investigation he did have Sherlock give them a sample of the leftover liquid in the flask, as well as his formula. The consulting detective had not wanted to, but it was the only way to avoid John being examined. So the one to treat John would be the man who caused the condition, though, to be fair, he had not imagined that John would actually drink his experiment.

The more public attention John gets, the more he dislikes it. Being under paparazzi flashbulbs had been one thing when he was behind Sherlock, but now he is so small that they seem like huge supernovas at the brink of their destruction and he is watching at the forefront of the blast. It is too much for him. By the end of the fourth day he stops giving statements to the press.

By the sixth day John gives in and asks Mycroft to do what he can to make the attention stop. Eerily, the mob outside 221b is gone before supper that day, and John can only be glad for it. Though that does not stop everyone..  
  
The news story, plus their address available online so clients could come to them, made them easily traceable targets. Unfortunately their doorbell begins to ring once the story breaks...  
  
It starts with one man who wanted to buy John after hearing about the accident, only getting halfway through the sentence before Sherlock slams the door in his face.“I'd like to offer fifty thousand pounds..” He is not the last, nor the highest bidder, but all of them are turned away – just like every other inquirer..  
  
“We just want to hug him!” Squeals a mob of high school girls, getting the same treatment. A wail of discontent is heard after Sherlock slams the door.

“I'll pay fifteen thousand quid if you let me take him and..” Begins one man before the door Sherlock's eyes turn chaotic and the door is hurled shut.

Once John made the mistake of going to the door, too. Instead the woman on the other side grabbed him – far too hard – and jammed him against her plush cheek. “You'd be perfect for my doll house..”

Maybe that remark, or the pain in his side that will later form a dark bruise, drives him as he hurls his small fist to create a tiny welt on her face. After that John does not answer the front door with anyone.

At first John appreciates their efforts and stays out of the way to not be a bother (and, for his size, staying out of the way is a survival tactic too), yet the more he sits on the sidelines the more disgruntled he feels. Finally when he can take it no more he decides he must take action – small or not he is still John Watson, Captain, Doctor, blogger, and friend. He has fought in the desert, healed those near death, and managed the world's most ornery scientist and only consulting detective. John knows he can handle anything.

So after being stuck in a size small enough to fit in someone's pocket for full week he wants to cope on his own two little feet. John finds that he adapts quickly to his newly diminutive form physically, mentally just took a few more days.  
  
John begins to sleep in his own bed, climbing down a maze of stairs made of many of the books from the living room. Sherlock had also helped move things around so that John could easily step from one surface to another. This did leave a few cluttered clusters of furniture, but for the present it would do to help accommodate their strange circumstance.  
  
He has Sherlock make a few more stairs out of books and small thin boxes, anything they can to get him onto surfaces without being picked up. Though Sherlock tries to be gentle John dislikes being handled or carried and goes it alone whenever possible.  
  
Having Sherlock being so attentive for once is not appealing, but annoying. That night when he can take no more John decides to take a risk. He climbs down his maze of stairs and creeps into the hallway, staying along the baseboard.  
  
John stops before a small hole in the wall. It has been ignored up until now as a small inconsequential thing, but now, as it felt like a cavern to him, John steps inside feeling that he may be able to find a nice respite...

* * *

  
After his return that morning the detective hovers..  
  
“More tea, John?” He asks while they sit at breakfast, one corner of the kitchen table clear of Sherlock's laboratory supplies while the rest is covered in the scientific stuff. As a consequence the room has taken on a permanent aroma of roses.  
  
“No!” John calls, because he has to shout or a quarter of the time the other man fails to comprehend him. Lately he has had less tea than usual. John has to drink out of one of Mrs. Hudson's thimbles, and even then it feels more like lifting a soup bowl to his lips.

Though small John's features are not incomprehensible. “I would have thought being out last night would improve your mood.” Remarks the detective crisply while filling his tea cup, now managing on his own or not at all.  
  
John's mouth drops but he supposes he should not have expected to fool Sherlock Holmes. Still, the man had tried, hoping his small form meant tinier, easily missed, clues.  
  
The cobwebs on John's back are so small and willowy, and the gritty dirt is a perfect map to the consulting detective. If anything his size makes it easier as the options and restrictions, though new, are fairly obvious to the detective. “You could get eaten in there John.” States the factual man without a hint of emotion. “I would rather let you walk out the door than that.”  
  
Holding in a glare is a difficult feat but he manages with his saint's patience. The walk had barely been worth the effort and fear put into it, but John was so tired of being dependent on the larger beings around him, and his drooping form makes that thought clear to his consulting colleague.

“I'll have the counter formula soon, John.” Sherlock still sounds completely confident even after a week gone by without the cure crafted. Having the original formula known is a huge assurance to the larger man, and he knows his confidence may bolster John.

John nods with his tiny figure depressing, the brown crown of his head more visible to Sherlock than his face as John turns his visage down.

The obvious frustration of his friend moves Sherlock to set his hand on the table and slowly move it against John's back and side. He brings down the pad of his finger and with the barest motion moves it across John's back. His light touch feels firm, yet not overly hard. John does feel soothed and in fact appreciates it.  
  
“I know you feel cooped up, John...” Sherlock tries to rationalize – truly he is being the sane one this time but his shrunk sized friend will not hear of it.  
  
During his time at pocket person size, as the media now calls it, John has learned how irritatingly different people act toward you once something happens to change you in their eyes. He knows it is a leap, but after a while he expected them to start treating him like John Watson again.  
  
An additional expectation had been that the media would get bored of their story and move on, but not yet. Though even if they did John stands out far too much to be in public alone.. Every neuron in Sherlock's brain is throbbing. Many are going off in John, too, but feeling too pent up overrides them. He needs to stretch and leave – without a babysitter.  
  
“I'm going, Sherlock.” Snaps John in his diminutive voice. “Don't get in my way.”  
  
Though every part of his brain is telling him not to, Sherlock still obeys John when the tiny man demands that he open the door, let him out, and not keep him a prisoner in his own home. Still, as soon as Sherlock had opened the door and then carried John down the stairs, he ran back up to his room to put on a disguise and follow John. Sherlock would let him think he was alone to get the psychological independence he so craved, and the detective would be able to intervene should the worst occur.  
  
Once again unfortunately for Sherlock, John has already beaten him to it. By the time the detective takes to the streets John is gone.

* * *

  
John had been walking and, of course, he got attention as soon as he left out the back way (thanks to Mrs. Hudson letting him go out through her place). A few of the paparazzi at the front had found him, snapped pictures, and tried to get in his way. John ran, and they shuffled along beside him still asking questions.  
  
John did not relent.  
  
They persisted.  
  
John walked farther.  
  
After getting several pictures of his tiny adorable figure walking in silence they had enough and stopped following him, watching from afar.  
  
The three or four individuals holding cameras did see the sleek black limo pull up alongside the curb where John walked. They saw a tall well built blond get out and approach the tiny man, stooping down and then kneeling, with his back to them. The normal sized man obscured the tiny one, so all they knew was that John was not there when the blond stood up.

They took pictures of the limo as it sped away. 

* * *

 

“I had to see it for myself.” Remarks Moriarty with unabashed amusement, looking down at the pint sized person. John is standing on his tabletop with a concerned expression, trying to remain stern over top of it.  
  
“Vicious biter, this one.” Sebastian Moran murmurs, shaking his head slightly. He had been the one that scooped John up off the street, on Moriarty's orders of course.  
  
With the floor dangerously far away there is no hope of jumping down. The legs of the table themselves provide no hand or footholds so climbing down is out of the question. At first John seems trapped, but he runs at Moriarty, grabs hold of his jacket and begins to ride down the fabric. Falling still, but with the villain's Westwood to slow him down.  
  
Jim Moriarty is quicker than John is though, and with reaches down, catching John between his fingers. A localized pain hits as John sinks his teeth where he feels skin. A coppery tang fills his mouth and John feels something that is not his spit, finding that he has broken the skin on the criminal's finger. It feels softer and he clamps his jaws down.  
  
Dropped without care, John is slowed as the fall brings back old aches and creates a few new ones. He rests on the tabletop again, but this time without standing his ground.

Meanwhile Moriarty studies the injury to his palm, intrigued by the stream it makes along his arm – John has indeed qualified as vicious.. “Do you know how much more I like you now, Doctor Watson?” He asks with a tease in his Irish trill, not sounding irate over the bite to his hand.

John's body still throbs but relents just enough that he may rise and face his gigantic nefarious adversary. Jim playfully bends forward, bringing his face within easy sight of John instead of something more like looking at the top of a skyscraper as he had before. The mockery in the other man's great eyes insults John. Small or not he is no weak heart.  
  
With a firm yet measured step that lacks haste John marches over to his best friend's arch nemesis, and in that way also his own nemesis – strange how he lives with such a reality, and yet nothing could be stranger than now.  
  
Jim coyly rests his forearms on the table parallel each other. Chin coming to sit on the middle of them with a dapper grin on his face, “Well, Johnny boy?”  
  
“So you've seen me – let me go back to Sherlock, and this will be finished.” John takes what Moriarty has said and offers him a chance to let this be over and done with. He will still be fighting against Moriarty tomorrow, but right now escape is his objective.  
  
“Mmm, no.” Jim replies with self amusement and an evident smug undertone.  
  
John has given him a chance and that is all he needs to assuage his conscience. Knowing well enough that sometimes life needs a fight, all he can do is make sure it is truly needed before beginning. John is not a violent man overcome by urges, but a man who sees a noble path and does what he can do to protect it. Sometimes he is only a mere mortal with the tools at his disposal, doing the best he can.  
  
Well, the week long frustration built up behind that normal good intent, and the fact that his kidnapper was now on their second kidnapping of him, may also be contributing factors too. Considering how the pool had gone John does not have high hopes for this enemy.  
  
Besides it does not at all surprise him that Moriarty needs a damn good thrashing - Pocket sized or not John will give it to him. He runs at the larger man, who begins to look on curiously. Knowing how little power of strength he has John uses momentum and mass, throwing himself at Moriarty while tucking in to concentrate his force. Jim had been lifting his head, and ends up getting hit in the throat by John, choking him for a moment and startling him long enough to let John climb on.

Or begin to, but it is enough. John had only fallen halfway down Jim's chest after hitting his throat, catching his hand on a button. It seemed enough to support his weight, so John used them to scale up Jim's chest. When he got to the man's tie he jumped on it, pulling hard to choke Jim further.  
  
Half stunned by what he is watching Sebastian hesitates for a moment, though he quickly goes to grab hold of John. The man is wriggling his body along Jim's belt, trying to find his way down but instead of escaping Sebastian's thick fingers grab him painfully hard and wrest him off Jim's custom tailored suit.

Feeling the air whooshing behind him John lets go of the tie to save himself from being grabbed. He fell without a plan, but Sebastian still got hold of him. John thrashed even though it only hurt his aching body more to pull on his already taut skin as Sebastian struggles to keep a grip on him. John would wriggle, and use his teeth, so that before long the large digits encompassing him were a rich red from bite marks.

John spits out the blood that ends up falling within his mouth, not wanting to swallow it. With his tiny jumper now crimson, along with a distressing looking cascade of it down his chin, John looks a mess. He flails so much that Sebastian drops him on the table twice.

“Ridiculous!” Shouts Jim, having had enough. He snaps his head in Sebastian's direction, and Moran catches his cool baited gaze. The two grab John in unison, holding one limb per hand and letting him thrash it out. They waited and stared at him as he fought.

The bloody militant miniature knows they are trying to wear him out and after jerking his frustrations out against their skin he slows, stopping quickly to save his energy. Still they hold him, willing to wait it out.

Jim chuckles under his breath, “Well this isn't boring, I'll say that.” He has never seen John with so much fight in him.

* * *

  
Taking John started as a bit of a joke after their disbelief – not at John's size, but at Sherlock accomplishing something in chemistry. Once they had a hold of John Watson just returning him seems trite and stale compared to keeping him.

They never meant to, but as with many things in the vibrant villain's life it just happened that way. Sebastian leaves the room and Jim starts talking to John. Teasing at first, then genuinely inquiring about the switch to such a tiny form. Slowly John notices that Moriarty is still Moriarty – he treats John the same when they talk.  
  
Except for one peculiarity. In a quieter moment while sitting on the table John lifts his minuscule jumper to examine a harsh bruise forming from Sebastian's rough handling earlier. When Jim sees him and the mark he picks up the smaller man.

John fights at first, until he feels Moriarty lift him to his lips – a wave of panic hits and then he does not fight, he thrashes. His fear does not recede until Jim has kissed his side and set him back down. Then John realizes he was kissed well by Moriarty. His tongue becomes unglued and instead of coldness he treats the madman amicably.  
  
Oddly, by the time John feels energetic enough to attack the slender Irishman he does not want to...

* * *

 

It has taken several hours to get the particulars from photographs, which only contained the back of Sebastian Moran and falsified license plates. Sherlock snapped at everyone while investigating John's disappearance, making the detective look more quarrelsome than ever to the world around him.

Sherlock does not care, not at all. In the end he does find out Moriarty's supposedly secret location is, and he arrives without drawing suspicion to himself – that is what he wants, so who cares what anyone else thinks...  
  
Except John, and the response Sherlock gets is not what he expects.

* * *

 

Sherlock enters and finds the man he knows to be his best friend – miniature form or not he would never mistake John H. Watson when he saw him – lying in a pile of crisp white Westwood shirt, the slim fit cut. Oddly John looks entirely at peace there and when Sherlock gently rubs at his stomach to wake him he rises slowly, a further sign of ease that befuddles Sherlock. “John?” He whispers.

“Sherlock!” Shouts the small man in surprise, sitting up.  
  
“Here, let's hurry.” Considering that Moriarty lies asleep not a yard away from the both of them he supposes John can forgive him for carrying him like he does down the stairs at 221b.  
  
Instead of taking to Sherlock's offered palm John remains sitting up in the shirt.  
  
“John, back home.” Sherlock tries repetition since John has used it so many times on him – perhaps that will get the newly awoken man moving. “I may have found the remedy.”

“May?” John says, then shouts it again so that Sherlock can actually hear it, “May?”  
  
“Not tested, but we can discuss this later.” Sherlock removes a small vial with a sample of the possible counter formula. He had been waiting to test it on a mouse subject first, but mentioning it to get John moving seemed logical. Yet it only had the opposite effect.  
  
“Let me have it!” John spreads his arms apart to offer his arms to carry the vial.  
  
“John, not here.” Sherlock is intrigued and strangely disappointed that John is considering staying here, of all places.

“Sherlock I don't want to go.” John finally relents and yields the honest truth. It is a bit more difficult than he thought, flushing slightly as he has to loudly say those words.  
  
“What?”

“I don't want to go!” As if once was not bad enough, John raises his voice again. Still the tiny man does not jump to attention and try to flee.  
  
Silence meets him instead of a response.

“I do _not_ want to go!” John finally shouts though he knows there should be no need in a silent room.  
  
“Shh,” Sherlock scowls, “I hear you perfectly. I don't comprehend you.” He wonders what may have happened to John. It has only been hours, and John is made of stern stuff.. The detective cannot risk being by Moriarty's bedside any longer and plucks John up between his fingers.  
  
“No, Sherlock!” John snaps, sick of being helped in a way that only controlled him. He was placed or carried, not able to go their on his own. The man bites his friend just as he had bitten his enemy. Sherlock cringes but sets him down slowly. “John!” He shout-whispers, the sound a strain on the room. “What is wrong with you?”

“I told you what I wanted. Listen to me - Small or not I am a grown man!” John shouts in anger, pointing his finger and waving it at his regular-sized companion. He brushes a hand over his face, sighing into it and letting his anger ebb back. “Thank you for trying to save me Sherlock. Give me the sample and I will see you tomorrow.”

“John-” Sherlock begins a counterargument that, knowing his mind, will be long and logical, and John might even listen, if he had not cut his flatmate off.

“Sherlock I will SEE YOU TOMORROW!” John is risking it with Jim lying there, small or not, by shouting at that level. From the look in Sherlock's eyes it is worth it. John is handed the vial and his friend shakes his head, mouthing 'It's not tested' once more while John continues to wave him off.

Sherlock leaves, still looking perplexed.

After sitting with the vial for a few minutes he moves to use it. John holds it between his thighs and unscrews the top with both hands. It has more than enough liquid, and some sloshes against his face as he tips it back just enough to start the flow into his mouth. John gulps back five or six times before standing and brushing it off his face. An acrid flavor, unmistakably not tea, unlike the original concoction.  
  
He looks to the bed in front of him and takes a running leap off the nightstand in order to land on the edge of Jim's duvet. John crawls over to Jim's pillow and before he can reach it he feels the change come on – not quite as sudden as the original, but within seconds he was back to his normal size.  
  
This time he had not spilled anything on himself so his tiny outfit ended up ripped off him once too tight while he grew back to normal size. John hardly minded, wrapping his arm around Jim's waist and pressing against him. Now grateful to have a full, human sized form once more – especially when it is snuggled against Jim's back.

Even more so when Moriarty rolls over, blatantly showing signs of being wide awake, and smirking as he leans in with a warm kiss, “Hello Johnny boy..”

**Author's Note:**

> Only partially beta'd, seeking another beta to stop overworking my BFF..
> 
> My ask box is always open for prompts, and you don't need a Tumblr to send one: [Link for Jimlockian Tumblr,](http://jimlockian.tumblr.com/prompt) click ASK to forward your prompt.


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